


Midnight Hour

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 01:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4810298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost finally gives in to impulse, to lust, to the moon-madness shining bright on Espie’s face and the scent of bitter chew mixing with the hot desert breeze, she pulls Espie by the wrist and they kiss hard and quiet, lips on teeth and tasting salt from each other’s mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Hour

The courier comes up the ramp like an evening shadow on mist-soft feet. Ghost barely catches it in time; her soft exhale a whisper behind the night wind. The ranger turns to raise a brow in approval. Damn quiet, even for someone who looks like she might be part mutant, she’s so tall. She’s got big hands, the biggest Ghost’s ever seen, and skin the pale brown of a second steep of tea. Scalp’s bare, little more than a hint of stubble casting shade on the planes of her skull.

Pulls up a chair, sits right beside Ghost like she belongs there. Taking up space.

She walks an old half-dollar across her knuckles, a polished little vanity piece that jangles on the eye. It draws glitter from the moon, signals her position to any hostile out there with eyes.

Courier laughs when Ghost says so, a deep belly rumble that itches down Ghost’s neck like too-harsh soap. Scours deeper than skin, makes her flayed nerves sing.

“I only let out this play-pretty when I’m trying to impress a lady,” she says, with a gap-toothed machete grin. Smells like sweat and tobacco, warm like sun-baked clay.

“Joke’s on you. There are no ladies ‘round here worth the name.”

Courier laughs again, twirls the coin on her thumb before palming it and pretending to make it disappear. Doesn’t quite pull it off-- Ghost spots it slip down her sleeve. Raps her fingers on the woman’s arm, knuckles striking metal before skidding off the padded muscle.

“Sharp eyes.”

Ghost learns the courier’s name is Esperanza (“But Espie’s okay, because none of you assholes ever say it right and my mama never had time for all the syllables anyway”) and rolls it around her mouth like whiskey. Can’t figure out how it tastes-- a ragged burn down the gullet, all raw strength and potency, or something with smoke and spice, full-bodied and warm in her belly. But Espie always brings little trinkets when she comes by-- funny-looking rock with green bands, worn smooth in the middle like an enormous thumb pressed in it; a half-dozen boiled sweets in wax paper, sticking to one another as Espie pries them apart and distributes them with exacting fairness; a string of animal teeth rattling on a knotted necklace.

Espie’s rough-- granite knuckles and head shaved stone-bare. Neck like a brahmin and spits like a cobra, hocking gobs of dark coyote chew with disgusting accuracy. 

But Ghost likes rough. Can’t strike a match without a little friction.

And when Ghost finally gives in to impulse, to lust, to the moon-madness shining bright on Espie’s face and the scent of bitter chew mixing with the hot desert breeze, she pulls Espie by the wrist and they kiss hard and quiet, lips on teeth and tasting salt from each other’s mouth. Espie sucks hard on her neck, tongue flicking over the pulse, sends a lick of red heat all through Ghost’s core. Even on her knees between Ghost’s legs, worn denim scraping the roof as she leans forward, Espie’s more than tall enough to look her in the eye, kiss her on the mouth and drag ragged-bitten nails through Ghost’s hair. Ghost groans and tilts her head back, lets the moon puddle silver on the hollow of her throat and the line of her collarbone. Spills all over her neck like a lover’s tongue, followed by her  _ actual _ lover’s tongue stippling wet dots that prickle to chills in the breeze.

“Gotta be quiet,” Espie breathes in her ear. Forehead bumping Ghost’s hat, near-lifting it off her head.

So Ghost cocks her head and takes off her hat, setting it aside on the table. A neat three inches from the edge, because she’s got no intention of letting it get knocked aside or hit the ground. “Not giving me a challenge, here.”

Espie’s smile is all knives as she folds her tobacco-stained fingers over Ghost’s belt, tugs aside and unzips her like they’ve got all the time in the world, like this isn’t some little sliver of stolen time under the Mojave moon. Like this is magic, real magic, more than her little sleight of hand with a coin so old its milled edges are worn smooth. Espie ducks her head low, cheek pressing to the swell of Ghost’s belly as she bites her tongue, breath hot on Ghost’s skin as she navigates that little maze of underwear and trousers, pulling them down to Ghost’s knees as Ghost hitches up her hips and Espie kisses the curls of exposed pubic hair. Little shiver-flicks of her teeth and tongue, kissing the crease of her thighs and the outer folds before, oh--

Ghost bites her hand, teeth digging in the meaty pad of her palm, salt and bitter on the blade of her tongue as it becomes a wet swirl of sensation.

“Cheating,” Espie murmurs, more breath than voice as she kisses the dip of Ghost’s navel, hops her mouth over Ghost’s hips and tongues the shadow-washed curves of Ghost’s thighs. Warm suction now, alternating with little red bursts of pain and teeth, nipping a zipper-line along Ghost’s inner thigh on her way to Ghost’s knee. Chuckles a scratchy baize rumble at Ghost’s frustrated hiss.

“You asshole. Move on up and lick my--”

“Careful. Sound carries.” And Ghost knows she’s right, when they’ve got the hum of the electric lights on the statue buzzing in the background, when they overhear the bar patrons stumbling out in the night with a spill of music and clinking glasses. So she swallows her cussing as Espie centers over the delta of her thighs, big hands braced to pry her apart, keep Ghost from crushing her skull with frustrated desire. Hums, an off-key jingle that would normally make Ghost roll her eyes and tell her to shut up but every god-awful note sings itself to a lull as she finally peaks and crashes, her free hand digging into Espie’s stubble, scrabbling for traction that’s not there. Her thumb catches slick on the red-gold keloid kiss above Espie’s ear, magic in their own right-- two love-taps that failed to put her down. Doesn’t matter how smooth Espie works that silver coin flip, how easy it spins over her laddered knuckles, how many times she conjures up those rich waves of orgasm--  _ that’s _ the real miracle right there, too-big Courier rising from the dead.

Espie grins evil thoughts, eyes dark and mouth wet, shining wicked like the fingernail curve of the crescent moon. “Almost got you to make noise that time.” Ghost mimes swatting her, but Espie plucks her wrist in the manacle-grip of her thumb and forefinger.  _ Tsk _ s at her with a lazy wink. “Lemme hold on to that.” Wedges her elbow into Ghost’s leg, bracing herself as she returns to honey-slow licks and broad strokes of her tongue over Ghost’s clit. The wind whispers chill over damp skin, raises prickles on the back of her neck.

Ghost fights a little, token struggle, so Espie twists to pin Ghost’s hand to her own thigh-- a sweet ache, something to fight against, another warm anchor for her body’s pleasure. The mock-struggle turns a shade closer to real as Espie nudges the hood of Ghost’s clit with a thumb, kissing it with whisper-flutters of her tongue and it’s hard, it’s fast, it’s so fucking  _ intense _ \--

Ghost nearly screams, banshee-wail of orgasm rattling her skull as she bites her hand.

After, right after, her clit throbbing and her legs limp, she hisses, “Stop, enough,” and Espie releases. Kisses her thighs, her navel, and her mouth. Wraps her hands around Ghost’s, but gentle this time-- cupping, not pinning.

“Damn near broke skin.” No accusation in it, Espie’s brown hand splayed out to admire Ghost's budding marks.

“Whose fault is that now?” Ghost mutters, too languid for proper sharpness.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Espie kisses her cheek, zips her back up and stays with her as the velvet night lightens around the edges, indigo and hazy purples all blending into soft rose-gold. Sky changes overhead, picture-perfect and washing the horizons all new with promise.

Ghost takes a sidelong glance at Esperanza, the courier nodding herself to sleep on the chair beside her. Elbows propped on her knees and slumping forward, too-big head nodding loose and too-short sleeves ragged on the edges.

No better company in the midnight hour.


End file.
